


Open

by LittleQueerdo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author is Nonbinary, Crowley says Ngk, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Non-binary character, Other, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), accidental misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27937187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleQueerdo/pseuds/LittleQueerdo
Summary: Crowley didn’t come out so much as saunter vaguely outwards.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Aziraphale somehow always knew Crowley's pronouns, which must be an angelic ability. Right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 77
Collections: Our Side Zine: Coming Out 2020





	Open

Crowley didn’t come out so much as saunter vaguely outwards.

As easily as shifting from snake to human forms, the demon slid into and out of and between genders. The shifts seldom came with notice, and sometimes without desire to nudge appearance. Once, carefully nestling counterfeit coins under digestive biscuits and Brussels sprouts in the middle of a Tesco, Crowley shifted from feminine to masculine between coins and had to rush the Bentley back to the flat (showers cleared out residual gender in a way miracles never could). So even after 6,000 years of sometimes barely having any inward signs of gender, Crowley still sometimes picked up Aziraphale for a spot of lunch just to confirm his pronouns for the day. 

Despite the shock and wonder and sense of _home_ in each moment of clarity Aziraphale provided, Crowley had never dared ask why the angel always got them right. By the time Rome was a thing, the angel’s knack was _de rigeuer_ (though still a quiet delight). Overthinking or feeling he couldn’t put words to things often led to sulking, a month in snake form, or both. The small revelation of "Would you bring zir another glass" or "Don't mind their mood, my dear" beat the absolute pants off of any other option, and Crowley took it more often than not, assuming that it was some angelic ability.

Until the bookshop.

One evening, after the Blitz was out and espresso was in, after his visits to A.Z. Fell & Co. had become standard and the shop (much to Aziraphale’s dismay) had gained popularity among beatniks, Crowley wandered in. Tipping his slicked head to the angel, who beamed and began the closing routine, the demon sprawled onto a red and gold chaise lounge to await the shop’s closing bell, feet up on the headrest and eyes shut behind sunglasses as he listened. 

Light footfalls, a susurrus of paper. “I beg your pardon, but we’re closing up for the day.” A murmur and shifting air as one customer left. 

Light footfalls, a whisper of clothing. “We’re about to close up, if you don’t mind coming back another day.” A mumble. “Oh, goodness no, that one isn’t for sale, but you’re welcome to browse next time we’re open.” An indignant exhale, quick click of heels, the door closing with unnecessary force as another dissatisfied customer left. Crowley’s mouth twitched as something soft and comforting curled up in his chest.

Light footfalls, a polite cough. “Excuse me, I’m afraid I must ask you to come back another day, sir.”

“I’m not a sir.”

The voice was timid, nearly phrased like a question. Crowley’s eyes snapped open.

“Ah, my apologies! I’ll endeavor to recall that next time. Do you have a preferred form of address?”

Crowley sat up with such force that his glasses fell off. He peered over his shoes at Aziraphale, who walked the customer out with cheery conversation and locked the door, wiggling his fingers at them.

“There! Dinner, my dear?” Aziraphale turned toward Crowley, smile melting away at the burning stare that met him. “Are you quite alright, my dear?”

The demon swallowed, cleared his throat, swallowed again. “Ngk.”

“Ah.” The angel raised his eyebrows, as though the wordless reply explained everything. “We’ll break out the Châteauneuf-du-Pape for starters, shall we?” He turned toward the kitchenette, leaving Crowley gawking after him.

So, the pronouns weren’t an angelic thing - or at least, not an Aziraphale thing. They were a _Crowley_ thing.

_How the heaven does he know mine?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years on, after the basket and the baby and the bandstand, the occult and ethereal settled in for a second bottle of a lovely vintage, miracled to the bookshop post-Ritz. Crowley’s sunglasses rested in their usual place of honor as Aziraphale poured.

“Did I tell you," the angel said, placing the wine aside, "that I splashed holy water at the demons?”

The demon gaped, nearly dropping their glass. “You didn’t.”

“I did!” A giggle, a wrinkle of the nose. “It splattered on the window, but they startled nonetheless.”

“What I'd give to see that," Crowley smiled wryly into his wine.

“Beelzebub was absolutely agape; it was a delight. ‘They’ve gone native!’” he mimicked the Lord of the Flies.

The demon’s smile faltered as they stared in wonder at the angel. “Did Beelzebub say ‘they’?”

“No, they used ‘he’ the entire time. I assume that my presence is what did it,” Aziraphale added.

“What?”

“Well, if you had been there, Beelzebub would have sensed _your_ pronouns instead.”

Crowley nearly dropped their glass again and opted to set it on the nearest table. “Aziraphale, they can’t _sense_ my pronouns. I have to tell them. I have to tell _everyone_.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? _I_ can always sense your pronouns. Or your gender, perhaps - I’ve never been quite sure.”

“Yes. You’ve always gotten them right. But _no one else has._ ”

Now the angel set down his glass, turning his blue eyes to stare right through the demon. “No one?”

“No one.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes on Crowley’s and breathed deeply. “I … I thought, for many years, that being able to project your pronouns was a demonic trait.”

“I thought being able to sense them was angelic! And then I realized you don’t get everyone’s pronouns right on the first try. Just …” Crowley swallowed. “Just mine.”

The angel shifted to the edge of his seat, leaning forward. “What does that mean? Are you … Have you _meant_ to share them with me?”

“Ngk. Eh. Um.” Crowley scooted down the sofa toward Aziraphale. “Not … I mean I didn’t realize I was even doing it. I’m glad you’ve always known. But I think it’s less pronoun-based than … me-based. I think. Putting _myself_ out there, rather than my pronouns. In a particular direction.” 

“In a particular direction,” Aziraphale whispered. 

The angel breathed in, and his entire being seemed to unfold. His face literally beamed; his eyes shone; his hair was brilliant. Crowley felt an openness from him that had never been there before: they could feel protectiveness, self-indulgent fondness, quiet admiration.

“Uh,” articulated Crowley.

“My _dearest,_ ” Aziraphale said. “You have laid out your entire self for me, from the beginning. Haven’t you?” He reached out a hand, and Crowley took it without hesitation. “You’ve never withheld a single bit. You’ve made no grand pronouncements but just _been_ , and I’ve taken so dreadfully long to catch up. Might I reciprocate now?”

Crowley swallowed, then nodded. “Sure, angel. But don’t - you don’t have to.” Their voice was a whisper. "This isn’t an obligation. You don’t _owe_ me, ever.”

“I'm aware. And that’s what makes me so sure.” The angel ran his thumb over Crowley’s fingers. “You’ve welcomed me to yourself in a way that heaven never did. Heaven was more a prison than a home; I was less than, asked to conform in ways that - well.” He laughed humorlessly. “ _They_ made demands I could never satisfy, while you have waited so patiently for me to meet you, never asking that I change who I am.”

Crowley had given up on breathing as a bad job some minutes ago, though their heart fluttered on like a bee gathering hope instead of pollen. They dared not blink as Aziraphale raised a hand to their face, caressing the demon’s flushed cheek. 

“My dear,” the angel spoke. “You have been a safe haven and always let me know I could be myself, without fear. For some time, I have wanted to tell you what you mean to me.”

Aziraphale released Crowley’s hand in favor of their other cheek, cradling their head like a precious object. The angel’s smooth palm, so long a desired hypothetical, nearly shut down Crowley’s physical brain as they basked in sensation, eyes fluttering shut.

“And now that I have the courage to match your own,” Aziraphale continued, “I find that no words are sufficient.”

Crowley lifted their hand to cover the angel’s, and for the first time of many, Aziraphale opened himself to the acceptance that had waited eons, quietly, for him to be ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit @OurSideZine on Twitter to download the free zine in full. It's so long! And gorgeous!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/justanotherlittlequeerdo).


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